In 1899, the American West was a powder keg. Bar fights and gun battles were commonplace, and various outlaw gangs ran rampant, desperately attempting to reignite the last embers of darkness before civilization's full, unstoppable arrival. Though the O'Driscoll Gang might seem like mere pushovers in the game, perpetually hunted by the Van der Linde Gang, in reality, they were a force to be reckoned with, firmly among the top-tier gangs of their era. Groups like the Howling Wolf Gang were less typical outlaws and more akin to black-gloved, military-style enforcers.
Yet, even in such a lawless time, the Van der Linde Gang stood firmly at the pinnacle. Despite Dutch's undeniable mental health issues, his ascent to the apex of gang leadership was indisputable. Robbing banks, executing lawmen, assassinating oil tycoons, openly defying Pinkerton Detectives, and even causing widespread chaos in Saint Denis—this was a group truly forged of capable individuals. Now, however, their sudden, unsettling silence only amplified the fear they instilled.
"Oh, gentlemen, please, stop fighting!" A nervous barman edged forward, attempting to mediate between two brawling men. A crowd had gathered, cheering them on, laughing, some even seizing the opportunity to pickpocket. Dutch and Arthur sat at their table, calmly eating, observing the unfolding spectacle.
"Damn it, stay away from my wife from now on! You damn bastard!"
"Hahahaha, you idiot, I'll be visiting your wife more often!"
Classic dialogue, a familiar scene. Dutch listened with detached amusement. Such brawls were common in the game, and witnessing it in real life held a certain dark humor. The fight, though not particularly brutal, still managed to draw the attention of the lawmen. They watched as the arriving officers eventually diffused the conflict.
Dutch and Arthur finished their meal. "Alright, Arthur, let's go. Time to see Sheriff Malloy. I sincerely hope he doesn't compel me to seek out a new sheriff, sir." Dutch wiped his mouth with a pristine napkin, then meticulously folded it and slipped it into his pocket. It was a strange dichotomy: this man, who dared not embrace civilization, was utterly civilized in his personal habits, to the point of being considered a refined gentleman.
Arthur rose, joining Dutch. "Arthur, bring the horses over."
"Alright, Dutch!" Arthur nodded, then strode towards the hitching post outside the bar.
Dutch, meanwhile, continued towards Sheriff Malloy, who still stood at the police station entrance.
"Hoo hoo hoo, hello, Sheriff, sir." Dutch approached Malloy with a wide, disarming smile.
Seeing Dutch's obviously affluent attire, Sheriff Malloy's usual disdain for the impoverished vanished, replaced by a subtle respect. "Hello, sir, may I help you?"
"Oh, Sheriff, sir, it's a genuine pleasure to meet you. My name is Arthur, Arthur Callahan!" Dutch's face was wreathed in smiles. He extended his hand, a customary gentleman's gesture, to shake Sheriff Malloy's. Malloy, caught off guard, extended his own hand. As their palms met, a peculiar sensation surged through Malloy's hand.
"!" Sheriff Malloy unconsciously lowered his gaze. Peeking between their clasped fingers was a crisp ten-dollar bill. A jolt, like an electric shock, shot through his body. Good heavens, ten dollars! What did that signify? It meant his family's quality of life would improve for an entire month, perhaps even allowing them meat at every single meal. Damn it, he thought, this ten dollars is nearly half my monthly salary!
America was industrializing rapidly; while John would earn three dollars a day three years later, currently, one might earn a dollar or even less, eighty cents a day was already considered a high wage.
Sheriff Malloy's body stiffened, and his eyes practically gleamed. A big shot! This was undeniably a big shot! Could it be a wealthy individual from the East Coast, venturing into the West? Having been so brazenly bribed, his demeanor instantly shifted to one of complete subservience. The calm respect on Malloy's face transmuted into a wide, fawning grin, his body bowing at the waist.
"Hehehe, Mr. Callahan! My name is Malloy, Malloy Curtis. Oh, please forgive my impoliteness, Mr. Callahan! This way, please." He barked over his shoulder, "Jack! Damn it, get back here and pour Mr. Callahan some coffe!" Sheriff Malloy scurried to open the police station door, then stood at the entrance, still bowing, gesturing for Dutch to enter. For these truly wealthy individuals, even a sheriff like Malloy was merely a low-ranking figure in America. Valentine, a small Western town, was utterly insignificant.
"Hehehe, Sheriff Malloy, you're far too kind. Oh, by the way, my companion might join us shortly; please remember to leave the door open for him." Dutch smiled and nodded, then stepped into the cramped police station. The local economy was indeed dire; even a sheriff's position yielded pitifully small illicit gains. As a ranching town, every ranch owner held connections, none overtly powerful, but none easily controlled by a petty sheriff like Malloy.
The rest of the population consisted of laborers, living and eating on farms, rarely venturing out, offering no opportunities for exploitation. This was still the untamed West, teeming with various gangs. While Malloy could manage smaller outfits, if a larger gang chose to defy him, they easily could, for every man possessed a gun. He dared not confront the truly powerful gangs; a genuine confrontation with, say, the O'Driscoll Gang, would undoubtedly spell disaster for Valentine's law enforcement.
Thus, Malloy, with no other avenue for illicit income, was instantly captivated by Dutch's ten-dollar gesture. Giving money signaled a demand, and a demand signaled profit. While he dared not harbor ill intentions towards these wealthy individuals, making a profit was an irresistible imperative. So, Malloy, with a beaming smile, ushered Dutch to the main seat within the police station, then personally took the tea from a lawman and respectfully poured a cup for Dutch.
"Mr. Callahan, I am truly sorry, our police station is simply too meager. Please, make do with this coffe." Malloy rubbed his hands, an embarrassed flush on his face, fearing his hospitality might be insufficient and offend Dutch.
Dutch smiled faintly. "Alright, Sheriff, sir, let's dispense with the formalities. I've come here primarily to discuss two matters with you."
"Please, please!" Malloy nodded repeatedly, his eagerness palpable. Dutch's fingers tapped softly on the table, each rhythmic tap resonating deep within Malloy's chest, compelling him into an unconscious state of heightened subservience and humility.